‘Not sure, sir. What are we going to do with him?’
The legionary’s tone made it more of a suggestion than a question. Maybe the river wasn’t such a bad idea. Valerius looked around. No. Too many witnesses, and if Crespo was truly on the procurator’s staff there’d be an investigation. He had a better idea. ‘Let’s give him a nice soft bed for the night,’ he suggested, pointing to a large midden that steamed noxiously beside a stable a few yards down the street.
They picked Crespo up between them and carried him to the dungheap.
‘Ready?’ Lunaris asked.
‘On three. One, two, three.’
Crespo’s body landed face down among the horse and mule shit, and, if Valerius was any judge, the contents of the owner’s latrine pit.
‘That’ll do nicely. He’s among friends,’ Lunaris laughed.
‘Wait.’ Valerius picked up a stick leaning against the stable door and prodded the manure around Crespo’s face until he had space to breathe. ‘No point in killing him.’
Lunaris snorted. ‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that.’
XVI Valerius, dearest son and a father’s pride, I greet you and salute you. Livius sends word that you are in good health and do your duty. Do not trouble yourself on behalf of your father; his joints may creak these days but he thrives like the olive trees on the southern slope beyond the river, a little more gnarled with each passing year, but still productive in his way. Granta and Cronus send their greetings, too.
The letter had followed him from Glevum and must have been written two months earlier. Valerius smiled as he read the opening again. A typical father’s missive to his son; replete with familial pleasantries but containing a rebuke in every line. The fact that Livius had sent word of his condition was meant to remind him that he had not. The creaking joints were a hint that his father was feeling abandoned. Granta and Cronus were the two freedmen who managed the estate. He struggled to find the hidden message in their inclusion, but he had no doubt it was there somewhere. He read on. I still await the reply from the Emperor in connection with my request for an appointment. It has been several months, I know, but I retain some hope of advancement and a resurgence in the fortunes of our family. The Emperor is a fine young man, with many responsibilities, but I have taken steps to ensure my application is brought before him.
Valerius felt his heart sink as he read the last sentence. Even in faraway Britain it was clear that dabbling in politics in Rome under Emperor Nero could be as dangerous as a night patrol in a Silurian swamp. His father had prospered thanks to his friendship with the Emperor Tiberius, but that had been long ago. He had only survived Caligula by retreating to the estate and resolutely ignoring the blandishments of every competing faction. There had been a brief revival under Claudius which ended with some indiscretion his father would never discuss, which had left him with an enduring hatred for the old Emperor’s freedman, Narcissus. Now was not the time to be making a political comeback. The problem was that Lucius believed he had friends at court.
I had a most pleasant encounter with your old tutor, Seneca, just the other day, and he brought me up to date with events in Rome and in the Senate. Valerius groaned. As a boy he had studied under the great man and the philosopher now owned an estate in the next valley to his father. Seneca, in his early sixties, could be a wonderful dinner companion, entertaining and erudite, fashioning arguments that could turn a man’s head inside out and have him debating against himself. He was also reckless and dangerous to know. One clever remark too many had lost him Caligula’s patronage and might easily have cost him his life. Yet just when his star was in the ascendancy again a flagrant affair with the now-dead Emperor’s sister, Julia Livilla, had seen him sent into exile by her uncle, Caligula’s successor, Claudius. Claudius’s wife Agrippina had rescued him from obscurity in Corsica to tutor her son, and now that same son ruled the Empire and Seneca sat at his side. Seneca advises that you consider leaving Britain at once — these things can be arranged, he says — and resume your legal career. It appears that your island province has not met the Emperor’s expectations. He sees only huge expenditure without tangible result and only his respect for his late stepfather’s achievements there maintains his interest. My friend fears that interest may not be indefinite. He hinted that if I had any investments in Britain it might be wise to withdraw them and direct them elsewhere. But my only investment is you, my son [Valerius imagined he could see a stain on the letter where a stray tear had dropped], and the thought of that investment ending its days on the point of some savage’s spear undoubtedly shortens a tenure already sadly decreased by life’s manifest burdens…
More of the same emotional blackmail followed before the letter descended into a catalogue of complaint directed against the weather, the slaves, the worthy Granta and Cronus who were the only reason the estate remained in profit, the price of olive oil, which was down, and the price of cattle feed, which was up.
Valerius put the letter aside before he had finished reading it, knowing it would undoubtedly end with another plea for his return to Rome. But his mind dwelt on the contents. The old man’s ambitions were worrying enough, but what about the hints of high politics? Could Nero truly be considering abandoning Britain? It seemed impossible that such an enormous investment in gold and blood should be cast aside so lightly. No, it was not possible. He was here, in Colonia, the tangible proof that Britain was Rome. A city with an emperor’s name and a god emperor’s temple at its heart. And Seneca’s suggestion that Lucius should withdraw his nonexistent investments: how did that square with what he had heard about the huge stake the philosopher had in the province? No, his father must have misunderstood.
Later, Valerius dispatched Lunaris to deliver the swords and shields to the militia armoury. ‘Then you can take the shovels out to the second century on the Venta road. You should be back by nightfall. Get a good night’s sleep. We’re going hunting in the morning.’
Lunaris gave him an old soldier’s look. ‘Hunting?’
‘You said you were bored mending roads.’
‘That depends what we’ll be hunting.’
‘Boar, I think.’
The legionary brightened. ‘And we get to eat what we kill? Where?’
‘On the estate of Lucullus, the Briton who is augustalis of the Temple of Claudius.’
Lunaris frowned. ‘Are you sure it’s only boar you’re after?’
Now it was Valerius’s turn to look concerned. ‘Why? What have you heard?’
The big man shrugged. ‘Just tent talk. You were out there the other day, and the quaestor, Petronius, was sniffing around, asking questions.’
‘You should have speared the bastard. What kind of questions?’
‘The kind of thing you toffs are interested in. Who your father is. If you have any friends in high places. Ask Julius. I only got it from his clerk.’
‘Who’ll lose the skin off his back if I have anything to do with it.’
Lunaris hid his smile. He knew Valerius wasn’t the type of officer to have a soldier whipped. The young tribune was an easy man to like and they’d become as close as people of their very different classes could become on the slow journey back from Londinium. Valerius had tied his horse to the ox cart and they’d walked together for most of the way. For all his ancient bloodlines and high education the tribune was a country boy at heart. He had pointed out animals and sign of animals that Lunaris, who had been brought up in the festering backstreets in the valleys between the seven hills of Rome, would never have seen without his help. A sleek otter gliding along the depths of a river pool with silver bubbles streaming from its flanks, and shy fallow deer peering from the shadows of a roadside copse. An old dog fox that crossed the road just ahead of them with one of his cubs in its mouth. Lunaris, in his turn, had told of surviving by his wits among the child gangs of the Vicus Bellonae in the Subura, stealing apples by sleight of hand or drawing a baker’s attention while a fleet-footed accomplice lifted a loaf that would be shared later. By the time they arrived outside Colonia’s gates they had become friends, which allowed Lunaris a certain leeway when they were alone. But he was a legionary and Valerius was a legionary officer and there were limits that both understood.
‘I’d best be going if I’m to be back by dark, sir,’ he suggested.
Valerius waved him away and set off in the direction of the west gate. The goldsmith’s shop formed part of a villa fronting the main street, not far from Lucullus’s townhouse. It didn’t look much from the roadway, but looks could be deceptive. A villa like this might take up an entire city block, with a labyrinth of dozens of interconnecting rooms and courtyards behind the unimposing facade. More likely it was less grand — Corvinus didn’t strike him as a man who needed to parade his wealth — but certainly enough to show that the former armourer had invested his pension and his talents wisely. The thought brought Lucullus to mind, and from Lucullus, Petronius. No doubt he had
